Something new and unexpected is happening here.
I’m not gonna lie—I like it.
***
The office is small, tucked between a pawn shop and a nail salon on the edge of town. The door creaks when I push it open. The space is clean and tidy, but still smells faintly of old books and coffee.
“You must be Danielle,” the man says, standing as I enter. He’s older—maybe in his early sixties—with sharp eyes that scan me like he’s already cataloging every detail.
“Name’s Mick Dawson. You’re here about your sister?”
He gestures to a worn leather chair across from his desk.
“I’ve worked a few cases like this,” he says, flipping through the file I handed him. “But a closed adoption makes it tricky. No identifying records, sealed court documents, name changes. All meant to protect the privacy of everyone involved.”
“My sister doesn’t need to be protected from me,” I say, my tone sharper than I intended.
“Miss Keaton—”
“I don’t care how tricky it is,” I interrupt, leaning forward. “I’ll pay whatever it takes. If someone needs money to talk, give it to them. If there’s a file to access, pull every string you can. I’ve waited ten years to find her, and I’m done waiting.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods and flips open a notepad. “I’ll start with what we know. Your names, where you were in the system, the approximate timeline of the adoption. When’s the last time you had contact?”
“The day we ran away from our foster home,” I say, the vivid memory playing in my mind. “I wanted to find my grandfather and beg him to take us.”
He nods before continuing. “Your sister’s name? Hazel Elizabeth Hartman?”
“Yes. Izzy for short,” I say.
Mick nods, jotting the name into his notebook. “They might have changed her name. Do you have a photo?”
I reach into my purse and pull out the small, dog-eared snapshot—Izzy in pigtails, her tiny arms wrapped tightly around my waist, her eyes bright and trusting. I swallow hard against the lump rising in my throat.
“It’s one of the only pictures I have of us,” I say, my voice cracking. “Please take good care of it. I’ll want it back.”
“I understand,” he says, meeting my eyes. There’s something in his expression—empathy. I imagine he’s worn that look a thousand times before. Missing people. Cheating spouses. Grief and hope tangled together. It’s a look designed for people unraveling, and it works.
***
When I get back home, Tina’s waiting with tea and raised eyebrows. “So, how was Mr. Manhunt?”
I sink into the couch. “Hopeful. Cautious. And expensive.”
Tina passes me a mug. “How soon will he get back to you? It’s a small town. If she’s here, it shouldn’t take long, right?”
“That’s the best-case scenario,” I say.
"And worst-case scenario?" she asks, her voice quieter now.
“If they changed her name, moved away, I might never find her.”
“Elle,” Tina says gently. Almost too gently. Gentle enough to make me pause. “What if Izzy doesn’t know about you? What if she has a life… a family? What if she’s stable and happy?”
“You’re asking me if I’d want to disrupt that.”
She nods, lips pressed into a line, bracing for my answer.
“I don’t know,” I admit, the words catching in my throat. “But I do know this—she's mine, Tina. She was mine when no one else wanted her. I loved her when love was the only thing I had to give. I protected her with everything in me. And even now, even after all these years, I still feel like she's out there somewhere... wondering if I ever tried to find her.”
